


The Black and White Line

by bees_stories



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 'International Fanworks Day 2015, Community: evilsam_spn, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Dark Sam Winchester, Deal with a Devil, Demons Are Assholes, Gen, POV Sam Winchester, Sam-Centric, Season/Series 10, Torture, sam has gone off the rails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 05:12:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3344885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bees_stories/pseuds/bees_stories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a black and white line that separates the acts of men from those of demons. Sam knows that. But he also knows he's got to do what he has to do to find Dean.<br/>A/N: Contains speculative spoilers for Season 10.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Black and White Line

***

Sam's arm hurts. He gets by on whiskey because the medication the doctor gave him messes with his thinking, but he forgoes even a whiskey buzz as he prepares for his evening out. Once he's double and triple checked that he has all the necessary supplies, he heads for the nearest crossroads.

He buries his box of offerings. He draws the lines of the devil's trap. He does the incantation. And then he waits, checking his watch every five minutes. He's on the verge of giving up when his cell rings. Caught off-guard, he stares down at his phone for a couple of seconds at the 666 area coded number before he answers, "Yeah, hello?"

"Sam Winchester, I presume?"

The voice on the other side of the line is refined and almost painfully correct. His diction is perfect. Sam gets the impression his caller was educated at a very exclusive private school. "You presume correctly," Sam replies. "Who's this?" 

"My name is Sallinger. I'm with the Department of Demonic Wish Fulfillment. I regret to inform you that your crossroads privileges have been suspended for abuse of terms of service. If you wish to negotiate a deal for a favor in exchange for your soul it will require a waiver – "

"My what?" Sam stares numbly at the phone as Sallinger continues to drone on about signatures in triplicate. "Wait! Would you shut up for a minute? I want to talk to Crowley. About my brother." 

The connection goes abruptly dead. Sam stares down at the phone and realizes that if he wants to get a line on Crowley he's going to have to get creative.

He can't stand the idea of going back to the bunker. All those books. All those files. Not a single piece of useful information in any of them. Even Cas is completely useless. The weird connection between him and Dean has been severed. He can't even tell if Dean is still topside, let alone what continent he's on.

Sam raises his face to the moon above him and howls with impotent frustration until he feels completely numb. Eventually, he pulls himself together and gets back on the trail.

***

Another pointless day of hitting brick walls and running down blind alleys. Sam bites Cas's head off without thinking. He knows he should apologize but he doesn't, knowing instinctively that whatever comes out of his mouth will just make things worse between them. He slams the lid shut on his computer and checks out of another faceless motel, driving aimlessly down the road until he reaches a bar where they don't know his name.

He sits and drinks, listening without paying attention to the rest of the drunks and losers propping up the bar. They're griping about their crummy lives and their lousy jobs. The guy on the end is actually sobbing into his beer about an IRS audit. 

He glances at his fellow barflies. They have no idea about what's really going on, or how pathetic their problems sound compared to his. They have no idea about the heavy price that hunters pay to keep non-combatants' sorry asses safe so they can piss and moan about what it costs to fill their gas guzzling SUVs or the price of baseball tickets. Their ignorance pisses him off because at least they can complain to the bartender or each other about their stupid problems. He's got no one. Not other hunters, because there's supposed to only be one solution when one of their number goes dark side. Not even Cas, because venting will only make him feel worse, and that's a crappy thing to do to a guy who's probably dying. 

Sam downs another shot. A newcomer bumps Sam's bad arm accidentally as he tries to get the bartender's attention. It sends white hot pain down the entire right side of his body. He reacts by punching the dude in the face. 

The fistfight that follows is completely worth it.

***

The Black Mass is as stupid as he figured it would be, but in the middle of another sleepless night Sam had remembered a long ago conversation he'd had with Ruby. She said most so-called Satanists were poseurs and losers, but demons would show up at their rites anyway. Mostly for a laugh, but also because occasionally they would get lucky and a genuine supplicant would be ripe for the plucking.

The standard uniform under the hooded robes is a Black Sabbath tee-shirt and a pair of torn jeans. Black lipstick and nail polish are popular accessories. Sam rolls his eyes so hard it hurts as they chant their allegiance to the almighty Satan. They have no idea that Lucifer is a dick who would sneer at their curled ram's horns and upside down crucifix before tearing into their collectively lousy dress sense.

A demon possesses a chubby girl with a purple dragon tattoo that twines around her left hand. The rest of the kids scatter like the mice that they really are. 

Sam moves fast, using the distraction of the fleeing teens to get close. 

The demon hisses at Sam as she's bound with sanctified ropes. She writhes and screams as he cuts her with his angel blade. 

But she doesn't give up Crowley. 

Not even when Sam slices her cheeks and blood runs in rivulets like crimson tears down her pudgy cheeks.

***

The another night. A different tavern.

Sam had an idea as he burned up even more miles in search of Dean. If the crossroads demons won't talk to him, maybe he can get someone else to act as a proxy. He thinks of the drunks and malcontents propping up the bar at the roadhouse he'd been kicked out of. They're a dime a dozen. And he's got a pocket full of change. He takes a stool next to a guy with the most hangdog expression he's ever set eyes on and buys them both a beer. 

"You look like you've had a hell of a day," Sam says as the bartender sets them up. 

The guy nods. He's half gone as it is but he manages to say, 'thanks' before downing most of his glass. Sam buys him another. And a shot to go with it. 

"This should help take the edge off." Sam smiles. It doesn't come that easily. Conning the marks was always Dean's game. He swallows down his impatience along with his whiskey and waits for the guy to start spilling his guts. 

He passes out instead. 

Sam stares in disbelief as forehead meets beer-stained oak. "Sonofabitch," he mutters, before stalking out of the tavern without a backwards glance.

There's a demon outside. He's standing next to the low railing that separates the entryway of the tavern from the parking lot, smoking a cigarette. He gets a startled look on his face and hisses, 'Winchester!' without meaning to, and then he realizes that he's given himself away as his eyes shift from human-normal to glittering black.

Sam lunges forward without a knife or even a flask of holy water in his hand, feeling like finally maybe he's caught a break. There's a frisson of anticipation in the pit of his stomach as he visualizes the damage he's going to inflict during his interrogation.

He never gets the chance to raise his fist. The demon smokes out, leaving Sam holding a terrified former bank teller in his arms as he tries to process just what the hell happened. Demons didn't usually cut and run, especially when their sworn enemy practically walked straight into them, unarmed, wounded, and unprepared for a fight.

Sam hasn't got the time or the patience to play nursemaid. He punches the guy unconscious, effectively silencing his hysterical cries, and then he leaves him where he falls. It's early and there's another roadhouse a couple of miles down the highway. He gets into the car and burns rubber as he pulls out of the parking lot. An angry guitar riff on the radio resonates through his bones and spurs him forward. He knows he's short on options and some of the ones he's considering are wrong, but he's desperate to get a line on Dean, and he's beyond caring.

***

Sam rubs at his eyes. They burn from the hours he's spent staring at news stories and crime reports. There is nothing obviously demonic going on anywhere that he can see, and he hasn't had luck at any of the other Black Masses he's attended.

Stopping Dean's credit cards and attempting a track on his cell phone hasn't gotten him anything either. Dean is completely in the wind. Sam considers putting out an APB. It's not really something he wants to do because he and Dean are linked so closely, he's liable to end up in the can as an accessory after the fact. 

He fields calls from other hunters. No one's heard anything useful. 

Cas calls. He's worried because Sam hasn't been checking in as he'd promised. 

Sam makes the right kind of noises, but he gets off the phone as quickly as he can. He just can't handle the forced confidence in Cas's voice when he promises that everything will be okay. That they'll find Dean and make things right.

He keeps moving, searching all the places he thinks Dean might run to.

Every time he comes up empty, Sam gets a little more desperate. 

He consults a medium whose supposed to dabble in the Craft on the side. He brings the ingredients for a locator spell with him. She gets out her tarot cards and does a reading without Sam asking. 

With each card dealt the medium's frown deepens. When she turns over the Death card she makes the sign of the cross and then the evil eye ward and then orders Sam out of her house, throwing handfuls of sage leaves and rock salt at him as he crosses her threshold.

She yells a warning to look to the state of his own soul before he worries about that of his brother and then slams the door shut. 

The bang resonates loudly on the quiet street and startles an old man walking his terrier.

***

In Laramie, Wyoming, Sam meets up with a pair of hunters he knows mostly by reputation. They greet him warily. There are too many stories circulating about the Winchester brothers for them to do otherwise. Cas has been in contact with them and now they want to know more about what's up with Dean.

Sam shrugs and he considers possibilities. Jim Bob lets it slip that he killed a witch six months back, and her coven has put out a contract. Selling out another hunter would put a high price on his head, but it might be worth it if it gets him the information he needs. Before he can come up with a way to separate Jim Bob from his partner, more hunters come into the bar. They're after the same Wendigo and the four of them decide to team up. 

Royally pissed that he's lost another opportunity, Sam fakes a smile as he wishes them happy hunting, and he stalks out of the bar.

***

Sam decides to try again to lure a proxy to a crossroads. He picks his mark carefully. No lightweights this time. No idle loudmouths. The more he listens to his chosen mark spill his guts, the more he's convinced that the guy and his wife deserve each other. They're both sorry excuses for human beings.

Still, even a sorry excuse for a human deserves to keep his soul. Dean worked hard to hang on to that belief, and for his sake, Sam pretends he hasn't given up believing either. So he won't let Lester – Sam has to consciously remind himself of the mark's name – go through with the deal. He just needs to summon the crossroads demon and then Sam will pull the pin and Lester can do what a normal person does when he finds out that his wife is cheating. Get a hold of a P.I. Or a divorce attorney. Or a therapist. Whatever. He really doesn't give a damn. 

He sets up the meet and tells himself that he's still acting like a righteous man. As he drives, he ignores the dissenting voice in his head that says he's crossed the black and white line that separates men from demons, and that maybe this time, there's no crossing back.

end


End file.
